


Your Soul

by irrelevanttous



Category: Twilight (Movies), Twilight Series - All Media Types, Twilight Series - Stephenie Meyer
Genre: F/M, tumblr: JaliceSecretSanta, tumblr: JaliceSecretSanta20
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-07
Updated: 2021-01-07
Packaged: 2021-03-18 00:49:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28609350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irrelevanttous/pseuds/irrelevanttous
Summary: Centuries ago, he made a deal with the darkness; his life in exchange for his soul. But the price is high.Written for Jalice Secret Santa 20.
Relationships: Alice Cullen/Jasper Hale
Comments: 4
Kudos: 16
Collections: Jalice Secret Santa 2020





	Your Soul

**Author's Note:**

> This is for @zaricats on tumblr. Some of you may wonder why I'm posting a second story for Secret Santa and it's because some people didn't post their gifts so @tragicallywicked organised a few alternative ones. I hope your Holidays were amazing and merry (belated) Christmas.
> 
> The writing style is shamelessly stolen from @GirlWhoWrites' "Shadow to Light" (at least the use of parantheses are), and the idea came to me while reading "The invisible life of Addie LaRue" which heavily inspired this story. It's quite dark and not at all christmas related.

_**Your Soul** _

* * *

It’s the rain that brings him to that grubby bar after dusk. Perhaps it’s loneliness, too, but he doesn’t allow his mind to linger on those thoughts. After all, he is used to being alone; he’s never really been anything  _ but _ alone. Once, more than one lifetime ago, that was different. But it doesn’t help to dwell on these memories, so he doesn’t. Everyone he used to love is long gone, and they cannot be replaced. (He  _ has _ tried.)

His clothes are still wet, but he hardly registers the cold air flowing out of the AC behind him. Earlier, the woman sitting across from him has asked why he doesn’t go home to change—surely he will get a cold, he will catch his death—but he simply dismissed her feigned concern. He doesn’t get colds and he won’t die. Humans, as he’s learned, are always quick to give unnecessary—unwanted—advice, and he doesn’t have time for it, not tonight. Something is going to happen tonight, he can feel it in his bones, though he can’t say what, or why, or how. It’s just a feeling, an old instinct resurfacing.

When she starts talking about her job (she’s an accountant; the most boring profession he can think of, and her stories aren’t half as entertaining as she thinks), he decides it’s time to bail. He doesn’t know how to do it politely—doesn’t know how to talk to humans, generally—so he just tells her bluntly that he came here to be alone and he’s not looking for conversation, nor anything else. It’s a lie, of sorts, but also the truth. It makes him cringe, the sting, that sharp pang of rejection she emits, but he blocks it out. This, he also doesn’t have time for.

He gets up, leaves her at the table where she ambushed him earlier (oh, he knows what  _ she _ was hoping to find, and he wishes he didn’t), and makes his way through the dancing crowd toward the bar. He’s not thirsty, which is a good thing, otherwise he would be overwhelmed by the desire to kill everybody he passes. There was one time, two decades ago, on a similar night like this, where he had. The memory fills him with regret, disgust, but he’s learned not to dwell on thoughts of the past. And he’s older now, wiser, more controlled, if only a little. It’s enough. He makes it to the bar and orders another drink.

It tastes repugnant, the alcohol he gulps down, but it makes his throat burn in a different way than he’s used to, so it’s worth it. Anything is better than that dull ache that doesn’t ever seem to go away, no matter how much he feeds or how often. 

It’s on nights like this that he regrets his choices, regrets every single instant that brought him to this point, that he wishes the stories were true.

They aren’t; he tried everything. Stepping into the sunlight (it didn’t injure him; instead, his skin started  _ glittering _ . There is a deep hatred reserved in his heart for whoever thought of this particular abomination, whoever had created vampires that way. Because there  _ is _ still some part of him that believes all beings were created by  _ something _ , whether that be a god, a spirit, nature, or something else entirely), driving a stake through his heart (the wood didn’t even pierce his stony skin, no matter how hard he’d pushed), and, of course, the old classic: garlic. He felt foolish for that one afterward, but, well. He’d been desperate.

These unsuccessful attempts made him despise humans even more than he already had, for their utter ignorance and cluelessness about… anything, to be honest. Centuries ago, they gave a name to what he is, filled their stories with monsters like him and called it a product of their imagination, and yet they did not come up with a way to defeat them. At least none that was effective, none that was real.

He knows, of course, exactly who had created him, who was responsible for the curse bestowed on him. It was that constant voice in his ear, encouraging him to do bad things ( _ Kill _ , it says,  _ you are thirsty, you won’t survive in this world if you’re too weak.  _ Not that he  _ wants _ to survive, but the darkness never cared about these insignificant details). It was the darkness that followed him everywhere. It was a creature, a deity, older than the world itself. 

At night, he often wishes he could sleep, find relief for just a few hours but that has been taken from him, too. His torment was eternal, his curse inexorable. The whispers of the darkness were a constant reminder that he would never find any joy for more than just a fleeting moment, that he would never know true happiness. 

_ You made your choice _ , it says.  _ You didn’t have to give up your soul _ .

You gave me no choice, he wants to scream into the void, but what good would it do? The voice (the darkness) speaks the truth, the decision was made, it cannot be undone, no matter how much he longs for another life. The darkness doesn’t care about his wishes, his dreams, his plans. Oh, how many of those he used to have, ‘once upon a time’ as the storybooks say. His life is another one of those stories, but he cannot tell it to anybody. And the boyish hopes and dreams are memories now, yet another thing he can’t afford to linger on.

He sees her when he gulps down his third drink—which he knows his bowels will forcefully remove later that night—and he lets his eyes rest on her. Just for a moment, he tells himself. It’s not love—or the poor substitute for it he seeks on other nights—that he’s hoping to find tonight. There is no love to be found in places like this. The truth is that he stopped looking ages ago. Love only comes to those who deserve it. Not to people like him. The only reason he’s here is to avoid the rain, to avoid suspicion, to avoid stares.

And yet,  _ she’s _ staring at him, her eyes—blue, he notes, even from across the room he can see their colour clearly—unblinking. He knows she will come over even before she moves, and he can’t hide the little smirk as she throws a couple of dollar bills on her table and gets up. A child, he thinks when he sees her size, but corrects himself as she steps closer. No, she’s a woman, but even the kid living next-door is taller than her, and that boy is around eleven.

_ Good luck _ , the voice whispers inside his head.  _ Good luck with this one _ .

He blocks out the familiar, cynic remarks. He didn’t come here for love, nor the other thing, but she’s beautiful in a strange, unaccustomed way; not his type, usually. He prefers the ones that look like him, female or male versions of himself. Blond, tall, with eyes that have seen a little too much darkness. It’s easier to leave those spitting images, those likenesses behind, to hurt them; his self-loathing goes that deep.

But then again, nobody is ever truly hurt. They don’t remember him after he leaves; it’s the nature of the deal. So that’s not why he picks them, not really. The real reason, the one he loathes to admit is that it’s easier that way when he slips. Those incidents get rarer and rarer with his increasing talent to control himself, but they still happen: occasionally, he will kill them, whether in the thrills of passion or afterward, or sometimes—on especially bad days—even before.

But this girl, this woman, she’s nothing like the others. She’s thin as a rail (does she get enough to eat?), and smaller than any grown woman he’s ever seen (a medical condition?), but her eyes are alert and awake, and…  _ alive _ somehow, and looking at him in a way that… Yes, what exactly does it do to him?

He doesn’t know. She looks… peculiar, but in a good way. Unlike anyone else he’s met for decades. Not like those other women that drool over him at any given moment, hoping he will take them into his bed. Not at all like that other woman of his kind he once met, back in San Antonio. It has been thirteen years since that meeting and he will carry the scars she left on him for the rest of his days. Which, given his immortality, will be many, many days.

He doesn’t speak first; he’s unsure what she wants. His gift never lets him down, but her emotions are different from what he’s used to. Humans never cease to be afraid of him, however unconsciously those feelings might be, but it’s always there, that underlying fear of what he is, and what they can’t explain. But this woman… she is not afraid, and it is surprising: chances are that she’s the most breakable creature he’s ever met. Killing her would be as easy as snapping his fingers, or tying his shoelaces. Effortless. Perhaps that’s what draws him to her. This fragility. This evanescence. This bravery of hers, because she must realise... she must know  _ somehow _ (human instincts are not as easily deceived as their minds) that he’s dangerous and yet she still came here.

No, instead of fright, she’s exuding mystification, astonishment. But also something more sorrowful, something he can’t grasp. It’s there, almost tangible in the air between them, and even though he knows feelings—knows them  _ too _ well, really—he can’t say what it is, can’t comprehend it. It’s the only reason he doesn’t get up and leaves; he wants to, for her sake, and he knows he should, but he doesn’t. She is an enigma. Many years have passed since he’s last been mesmerised by a human, but clearly, tonight’s the night. Everything feels possible all of a sudden.

And it’s just one gaze into her eyes that made him feel that way.

_ Everything’s possible _ , the voice agrees.  _ But only for tonight. Tomorrow, you will lose her the same way you lose everyone _ .

The truth has never tasted quite so bitter before, and he wants to spit it out along with the venom that pools in his mouth when he rests his eyes on her (some part of him can’t help noticing that she smells  _ delicious _ ), but there are some things he can’t dispose of. He can’t change the curse. (No one can). He can’t change what he is. (He has tried this, too.)

She introduces herself—Alice—but then she’s silent again, and it’s refreshing. The others tend to go on and on about this or that, never knowing when it’s time to stop talking; they never understand when their words have outstayed their welcome, and they don’t pick up on the signs showing that he’s heard enough. It’s the reason he always speaks that same sentence, the one that makes them shut up quickly every time:  _ Let’s get out of here _ . In all of his years, they never said no, not one of them. Some unfortunate souls paid with their life for that error in judgment, the others simply with the memory of one night. Most of them would likely accept that bargain willingly in exchange for one night with him and that feeling of his body against theirs, but they don’t have all the information. What they don’t know is that once they leave whatever place they met him at, their fate is in the stars. He might as well roll a dice to decide over their lives but that seems a little too macabre, even for him. 

One thing, however, never changes. It’s all gone in the morning, every trace of him erased. After a while, he started to leave before they wake up; nothing is worse than seeing that expression on drowsy faces, that ‘I’m sure I would remember if I had sex with  _ this _ guy’ look, those small hints of insecurity, of distrust. Leaving is easier. Afterward, he wonders what excuses they make up for their complete blackouts on those mornings after: Too much alcohol? Drugs? Amnesia? Or do they think they are going crazy?

Right now, none of this matters. There is nothing to focus on but her. He treasures those moments when it feels like the universe stops expanding, when he isn’t the only one who never ages. They are rare. He tells Alice his name—his real one, not one of the many others he goes by—and she extends her hand. So trusting. So foolish, really. They always are. He takes it; it’s impressive that she doesn’t flinch at the coldness of his skin. She feels warmer than the sun. 

Now that he thinks of it, he realises that she doesn’t seem to be caught unawares by anything at all, as if she knew their meeting was going to happen. As if it was bound to happen. He likes this: the idea that fate has brought them together. He wonders what she would say if he asked her the question he always asks the others. Would she go with him? Would she be repulsed?

No, he decides after they’ve chatted casually about the basics for a while (where does she live, what is he doing here, where do they work, where are they from. He doesn’t lie as much as he does with the others, and it startles him. It also surprises him that he enjoys talking to her so much; although the conversation seems rather shallow on the outside, that’s not the impression he gets. He feels as if he’s known her for many years). She would— _ will _ —go with him, wherever he leads her. She wants him, he can feel it, but it doesn’t sicken him like it does on other nights, with other people. On those nights, deep down he can’t conceal his disgust for their weakness. These people remind him too much of himself. 

But, as the next hours trickle away, he realises that this girl,  _ Alice… _ she’s the polar opposite of him (looks like it too; short, fragile, untainted, dark-haired), so refreshingly different that it makes his head spin. Wherever he is cold, she is warm. Where he is hard, she is soft. Where he is dark, she is light. (She’s too good for him, really.)

He loves her long before the new day arrives (a long-forgotten part of him is worried that she will dissolve into thin air as the clock strikes midnight), long before he finally asks that question he’s postponed for so long (he doesn’t even know why; does he think she deserves better? Is he afraid? Afraid of her, of… something? It’s certainly not because he doesn’t want her. He wants her in every sense of the word). 

In truth, he is well aware of the reason for his fear. He’s afraid to hope. Afraid she will be different. Afraid she won’t be.

She nods when he asks her (he knew she would), and they leave the bar together. Now is the moment to roll that dice, to lay his bets, to pray that the stars are in alignment tonight. Her life is in his hands now, and, for the first time, the responsibility weighs heavily on his shoulders. But there is no reason to worry; he’s already certain he won’t kill her. With the others, he’s never sure, but she’s different. He could never hurt this girl. 

The certainty surprises him, but the truth stands steadfastly.  _ No _ . He won’t hurt her. 

His apartment is not far from here, but he never takes anybody there, so they get in her car and she drives them halfway across the city to her place. She turns the radio on and sings; it’s at that moment he realises that his heart will always belong to her, whatever she may do with it, cold and rotten as it is. She is pure, she is innocent, she is  _ good _ .

After she unlocks the front door of her apartment, he doesn’t get much of a chance to look around—he wants to, wants to know more about her, longs to find out any details about her life—because, suddenly, she is all over him despite their remarkable height difference, and for some diverting, sweet hours, he forgets to think.

The reason he keeps doing this—spending these nights with strangers who won’t remember him in the morning—is that it blocks out the voice. The darkness will give him some illusion of peace during those moments, lingering in the back of his mind, watching and gloating silently. It knows that his pain will be even greater as soon as his lovers wake up (although he dislikes that word: ‘lovers’. Love has nothing to do with it. If it had, he would be gentle), so it patiently sits back and waits for him to destroy himself.

This night feels different in every single way. He doesn’t want her to fall asleep, not even after the fourth time (she is exhausted, but he is selfish) he brought her over the edge (he knows a thing or two about emotions, and pleasure is among the more pleasant ones), so he asks her questions whenever her eyes threaten to shut. She’s patient, she’s sweet, and she answers all of them, until her speech is slurred, and she can’t sit upright anymore because she’s so tired and, for one terrible one long moment, he has the worst thought he’s ever had: If he turns her, she won’t ever have to sleep. If he can keep her by his side at all times, if she never closes her eyes, or steps into another room, if she never breaks the line of sight, then she doesn’t have to forget him. It seems like such a tempting fate, at least for him (at least compared to the eternity of doom that awaits him); to just lie here with her forever and never leave her out of his sight. He could do it right now, he could turn her, so that those precious last hours are not lost, so that he doesn’t have to start over tomorrow.

But he can’t. She deserves so, so much better. She wouldn’t thank him for being turned into a monster, he’s sure of it, and the last thing he would see of her before she left would be a look of contempt, of disgust, of revulsion.  _ How could you do this to me? _ she would say and the memory of those words would haunt him for as long as the world kept spinning.

No, he’ll leave her just the way she is. 

After another half hour, the inevitable happens: she drifts off to dreamland, a place where he already ceases to exist. She won’t dream of him, and when she wakes she will have forgotten they ever met, will have forgotten his name, will have forgotten the feeling of his body on top of hers.

_ But what if she remembers?  _

He doesn’t know where the voice is coming from, doesn’t know if it’s the darkness or his own, stupid brain that is conjuring it up, but he shakes his head violently. He can’t allow himself to hope that she will be different. 

Well, she  _ is _ different. In every way but one, most likely.

The next morning, he contemplates leaving. Would it help? His heart is already aching, even though he’s still lying next to her, still stroking his hand over her soft, raven hair, still gazing at her sleepy face. How many times can his heart break, he wonders, but really, he knows this is the first time it will. The other times… yes, he’d hoped, and then he’d been disappointed, but disappointment is not the same as heartbreak. All those times, he’d hoped that the curse would be broken, hoped that, for once, someone would open their eyes and recognize him. Hoped that he would finally be somebody to someone.

He never hoped more than he does today.

But when Alice opens her eyes, blinkingly, he can tell that it’s not different. There they are, those familiar sights: that same confusion, that grasping of the bed sheet to cover her body, those wide eyes. And that question he’s heard about a million times by now: ‘God, how drunk was I last night?’

He tries to hide his disappointment (‘disappointment’ is not the right word, he feels shattered beyond all capacity, and foolish, too, for thinking it would be different) as he vows to himself to never do this again. Tomorrow night—or whenever he feels the urge again—he will find one of the other people, the ones that aren’t different, the ones where he doesn’t have a flicker of hope left in his chest.

Alice asks him to stay when he makes his way to the door, and he refuses. Whether he will leave now or later is of no consequence; the end result will always be the same. One closed door, one small nap and she will forget who he is. Will forget he ever existed. Will forget his name. It is his curse, and he thinks if given the choice again, he would choose death this time. The sweet nothingness of the darkness, the void, they both sound positively tempting compared to the despair he feels now. This is exactly what the darkness wants, for him to surrender and he knows it, but fighting back seems impossible today.

Alice doesn’t want to let him leave, says she wants to get to know him (He can tell she’s embarrassed that she can’t remember him, and when she asks for his name again, this time he lies. Not that it really matters, but it  _ hurts _ , it hurts that she can clearly sense that there was a real spark, a real connection between them last night that she just can’t put her finger on anymore), but he shuts the door behind him anyway, knowing that she won’t come after him. Staying here will only make things worse.

They repeat this cycle many times. He knows he shouldn’t. The honourable thing to do (‘Honourable’. The darkness likes this, it is fuel for many remarks and ridicule, because they both know there is nothing  _ honourable _ left in him) would be to let her go, to let her live her life, to give her the chance to find someone else, someone who is there to stay. Well, he  _ is _ staying, too, but she doesn’t know it. He is with her every night. She, on the other hand, is just meeting the same stranger again and again, slowly but surely thinking she’s going mad because the gaps in her memory are getting so frequent, so constant. She once tells him—while they are lying on her sheets, drenched in sweat (well,  _ she _ is)— that her family is starting to get worried about her because of her many blackouts. The guilt eats him up inside; it’s festering, rotting his insides. 

He wishes he could forget, too. Oh, how much easier everything would be. But he is blessed (cursed) with perfect memory and nothing ever fades from his mind. Instead, he’s memorized every mole, every freckle, every square inch of her body, every unevenness of her skin. They always end up here: She never stops wanting him. He could paint her from his memory alone, and maybe he will have to someday, when she’s no longer here. When she lies on her deathbed, old and wrinkly, while he sits at her side, ageless and still looking exactly the same as he did on the day they first met (at least from his point of view; every meeting is the first for  _ her _ ).

He adds it to the list of things he hates about himself, the fact that he can’t let her go, that those few hours he gets with her every day—every night—are so addictive that it’s impossible. His soul no longer belongs to him, he thinks, so how can she still not recognize him? He bargained it away a long time ago, and wherever it was in the meantime (the darkness had it, of course, but it’s still such an abstract concept that he doesn’t want to consider it), it’s hers now; it belongs to neither the darkness nor him. The curse should be broken, and yet she still wakes every day with the same blank expression on her face. 

One night, two years after they first met, he finally tells her what he is. He tells her all about the deal he made two centuries ago with the darkness. How he got his life back, which had hung in the balance, threatening to tip to either side at any given moment. How he’d said that that was all he wanted, his life. God, he’d just wanted to live. And how he got his wish, but at what cost? For once, it would have been wise for him to have listened to the stories: the devil is a fickle creature, and deals with him never come without any consequences.

She reacts better than he expected. She doesn’t scream, she doesn’t run, and she still allows him to come into her bed that night. She even says them, those damn words that break him for good. ‘Thank you for telling me. I… think I might be in love with you’. 

He can’t believe it; they’ve only met a few hours ago, at least when it comes to her perception. How can she  _ love _ him? How can she love  _ him?  _ It makes no sense and, for the first time, he allows himself to weep next to her (Tearless. Another cruelty of fate, he doesn’t even have tears to spill for the woman he loves) while she dozes off. It’s all so terribly unfair. Life, and love, and pain. For him, these three things are blurred, all of them meaning the same. There is no difference anymore. His existence has been granted in return for his suffering, a bitter pill to swallow, a most regrettable choice.

The pain is so staggering, in fact, that he nearly leaves. This time, he thinks, he cannot stand it, the look of utter blankness on her face when she wakes, her void eyes. Not after she told him she loved him last night. But still, he stays. Perhaps he likes pain, or maybe he hopes she will say it again if he makes her fall in love with him again today. She’s never said them before, not once in the two years he’s known her, but maybe… just maybe, his luck has not run out entirely.

He stands in the kitchen, making breakfast for her when she enters, but doesn’t turn around. Perhaps he can prolong the moment for a few more seconds. Perhaps the inevitable will wait this time, just hold out a little longer. Perhaps fate won’t rip that fraction of happiness away again before he can get a chance to treasure it.

Her steps are soft on the kitchen tiles, her feet bare. Her apartment is so familiar by now, and he would recognise the girl living in it anywhere by the sound of her feet hitting the floor alone. 

This, he didn’t expect, though: Normally, she lingers in the threshold, watches him with confusion and that all-too-familiar look of surprise on her face. But now, Alice walks up to him from behind, and wraps her arms around his waist, resting her cheek against his shoulder blades. 

He freezes. This  _ never _ happens.

“Good morning, Jas.”

For the first time in many years, the voice is gone.

**Author's Note:**

> This is so different from everything I've written so far. I hope you like it! Happy New Year (may it be better than the last for all of us!).


End file.
